


Any Such Luck

by Kastaka



Category: Dragonriders of Pern - Anne McCaffrey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-24
Updated: 2010-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-14 01:36:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/143926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kastaka/pseuds/Kastaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter and Melenger are both Candidates at Telgar Weyr - but it's not exactly love at first sight...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Any Such Luck

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Macdragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Macdragon/gifts).



"There y'are, lad, you'll do fine," N'han encouraged him, giving him a gentle push in the direction of the Candidate Barracks. "It's not like with a dragon we're ever far away, son, and you'll get to see your mother more here."

Peter didn't say, "Maybe she should have raised me, then." Peter didn't say, "If you like it here so much, why don't _you_ stay."

He knew the drill by now anyway. They had 'just been visiting' his aunt in Igen when that clutch hatched. They had 'gone to get some mountain air' in High Reaches when the dragons started humming there. If the twenty-three eggs on the Telgar sands proved a disappointment, he was sure his father would be back to take him wherever the next Hatching was due.

Clutching his belongings, he stalked miserably into the new territory that he doubted he would have time to make his own.

"Hey, new bug," called a boy from the other end of the room. They were all meant to be at some kind of chores, but it was obvious that this well-dressed lad thought he was above such things, making a desultory attempt to tidy the beds and floor.

"Hey," replied Peter warily. He went to look back over his shoulder, but the air currents told him that Neverath had taken off. He was on his own.

"Yours is down there," the boy instructed him, making no attempt at introductions. Following his gesture, Peter saw a neatly made cot at the slightly downhill end of the room. Probably next to a snorer. He looked up and down the rows and started to head to the middle, where there were also a couple of unoccupied-looking beds.

"That's not yours," the boy repeated, throwing down the sheets he had been fiddling with in order to stand in a more menacing pose. "Top here's for holders, middle's for Telgar weyrfolk, and down there is where _transients_ get to sleep."

Peter would have liked to ask angrily, "How do you know who I am?". But the boy had no doubt clocked his father wearing Ista colours and not exactly treating him like royalty. He looked the other lad up and down. Not as unfit as he would have liked an opponent, and plenty of weight to throw around too. Yet he knew that if he gave in now, it would never stop. He had no desire to repeat the troubles he had suffered fostering at Fort.

He swung his possessions onto one of the middle beds in a defiant motion, and made to flick open the trunk at the end to begin sorting them into their rightful place.

The other kid crossed the space between them much faster than Peter had given him credit for. "I _said,"_ he snarled threateningly, "your bed is over _there_." The closer view as he squared up to do some violence, maybe only to Peter's possessions if he was lucky, gave the new boy a better view. Looked like horseriding muscles, perhaps a bit of hunting, and the way he was taking up a stance suggested that he hadn't actually had to _fight_ much.

There was a polite throat-clearing noise from the door, and Peter was saved from finding out how accurate his assessment was. One of the weyrfolk had stopped by to check on them.

"Ah, I see you are settling in already, then," said the latest arrival, as the boys stood down and looked awkwardly at their feet. "The Headwoman sent me down to check on a new arrival. Peter, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir," muttered Peter. He didn't want to seem ungrateful, but being seen to be too friendly with authority figures never helped when the lights were out and they'd gone away.

"And chosen a bed already, I see. Excellent news. Do you know where the Headwoman's office is, when you're settled? We'll want to be adding you to the rosters and everything."

"Yeah," replied Peter sullenly. He hadn't been to Telgar _much_ , but he knew the basic layout. It probably hadn't changed in the couple of years since he'd been down here for his half-sister's weyrmating party, or his grandmother's birthday, or whatever it had been.

"Well, I'll leave you boys to it, then. I'm Chamez, weyrlingstaff assistant, if you have any problems - but I'm sure you'll settle in just fine."

The adult left the room, but the fight had gone out of the older boy, who stuck out his hand in greeting.

"Name's Boris," he admitted, grudgingly. "Want to give a hand with the beds? S'only half an hour til dinner."

"Sure," replied Peter, taking the offered hand carefully, making sure he wasn't in a position to be jolted by an over-enthusiastic handshake or dragged off his feet by some kind of unexpected opening manoever.

His caution proved unnecessary, however, and he even started to teach Boris how to properly make a bed by the time the other boys started arriving on their way to dinner.

\----

Melenger sat on the roof of the children's caravan and watched the world go by.

Good times were just around the corner, his father would keep telling them. He'd been discussing complicated arrangements with metalworkers, scouting out caves and shelters along their routes. The boy gazed into the empty skies. Could it be true? In under a decade, would he really be unsafe to sit out here on the roof, would they have fitted cumbersome emergency measures to protect the team and be huddling in caves halfway through their run, tucked away from the airborne menace?

His father thought it would, and that the dragons would be too busy to ply their centuries-old trade, leaving passengers and goods and business to fill the roads again.

There was one now - banking past on a patrol flight, he reckoned. His gaze tracked practically through it. Melenger dreamed of space, raised on tales of the Nathi wars, heroic captains and pilots pulling off extraordinary manoevers, wise admirals orchestrating unimaginable quantities of personel and materiel. He knew that such dreams were beyond anything he would ever see, born to those who wished to get away from all of that, and needed no other unattainable dreams of flight like some of the other trader children would get from time to time.

Wait - but that wasn't flying a straight patrol route any more. It was spiralling down, getting closer. Was it aiming at the caravan? What could a dragon want with them?

Unsurprisingly, traders and dragons didn't traditionally get on too well. The dragons always wanted their share of everything, even when they were working in direct competition. The traders were hardly pleased to let anyone review their books for any reason. There were tales of dragons rescuing trader caravans from all kinds of unpleasant fates, of course, and there was the whole Threadfall mystique to contend with, but generally being left alone by the winged creatures was the best for trading folk like themselves.

It was definitely coming into land, but Melenger was glad to see that its path would take it some way ahead on the trail. At least that way it wouldn't spook the beasts.

He had almost put it out of his mind when the rider came walking up the road to meet them. As he hailed the front vehicle, the whole train came shuddering gently to a halt. His father would be cursing the lost time, Melenger thought, as he watched the rider chatting to his parents. They were doing that thing adults did where everyone was very polite and amiable to each other in order to cover up the fact that they didn't want to be having this conversation and none of them would shed a tear if the other were to go and die in a hole.

Then they started moving back towards the children. Uh-oh. Time to get back off the roof before he got spotted. He'd already had one painful reprimand for climbing; no doubt he'd get another if they caught him, in the mood they were likely to be in after a rider's visit.

Just in time, he gently lowered himself down to the back of the wagon and took up a position as if he'd been sitting here on the side all along. Still not quite as obedient as his brothers playing cards inside, but nothing they were going to make a fuss about, he hoped.

"Here they are," his father was saying. "That one on the tailboard is Melenger, who's going to learn to keep inside before Thread falls, aren't you, my boy?"

"Yes, da," replied Melenger with a cheeky grin. "Anyway, it's not like it falls from the sky non-stop, right? Hayley says we'll have plenty of warning."

"There can be freak occurances, though," warned the rider. They never could quite joke about Thread, in Melenger's limited experience. Always had to turn it into a teaching moment. "Would you run and get your brothers for us, then?"

Melenger looked across at his father for approval, and receiving an almost imperceptable nod, darted inside. "Wake up, sleepyheads!" he called, although none of his siblings, half-siblings, and the adopted waifs and strays they shared a caravan with was actually asleep. "Dad's got a rider outside, so you all line up straight and be on your best behaviour! Wants to take a look at us, he says. No doubt counting how many mouths we really have to feed, or something."

"I really wish you wouldn't be so ignorant," complained Hayley, as she put a bookmark in the latest work she was studying. "He's probably come on Search."

"Well, you don't have to come," Melenger retorted. "He only wanted to see my brothers."

"And miss out on all the fun?" asked Hayley, following the boys who were already trooping outside.

The rider looked a little taken aback to see a girl in the lineup, or maybe just that there were so many of them. "I can't bring the dragon near the caravan-beasts, so you'll have to come up the path a way," he apologised. "It shouldn't take long, and I'm really sorry for the intrusion; Jernth just wouldn't stop insisting there was someone here he needed to meet."

Melenger's mother hovered anxiously up the path with them, but his father simply detailed a couple of uncles who were doing their duty as caravan guards, and stayed behind with the main body of the train. It was a lovely day for a walk, although his little brother Kerellen was whining as usual.

Even the talkative younger boy shut up when they turned a corner and saw the dragon looming in the distance. They'd seen plenty of greens and blues about their business, and even the occasional brown, but this brown was distinctly larger than the old sleepy watch-dragon up at Telgar Hold.

"There, there, Jernth's lovely, he wouldn't harm a fly. Now, how about you all stand real still and let him have a look." The rider's eyes glazed over strangely, like he was listening to something they couldn't hear, as the dragon unfolded in front of them, The whirling eyes fixed on one and then the next, working down the line of anxious children. Then they gazed for a few moments on the rider, who was looking slightly awkward, like he was having an argument with himself.

"Is it done?" asked Melenger's mother, quaveringly.

"Mrs Kampfell," he said, formally, "I was not sent on a particular warrent of Search, but you must know that in these times that the Weyr has the right of Search at any time. Perhaps we should go back to the caravan to discuss this?"

"We've always known our duties, mister N'ton," replied Melenger's mother, stiffly. "If some of mine are needed by the Weyr, then it's off to the Weyr for them. Just spit it out and don't leave the poor dears in suspense."

Typical of her, thought Melenger. Never admit to your own weaknesses when someone else can be blamed, that was the Kampfell way.

"Well, Jernth has indicated the young lady here," and he gestured to Hayley, "and one of your middle boys, Melenger wasn't it? The eggs are already on the Sands, so we won't be detaining them long if it turns out he was mistaken."

Mrs Kampfell pursed her lips. "I thought you only asked for the brothers?"

"I'm sorry, Mrs Kampfell, I was obviously mistaken," apologised N'ton. "Naturally, we can't take the young lady if she is not willing..."

"Are there books at the Weyr?" burst out Hayley, unable to restrain herself further. She hadn't seemed that intimidated by the presence of the dragon, and her eyes were faintly sparkling with the prospect.

"Of course," replied N'ton kindly, "although most of them are about Threadfall and related practical matters."

"I don't think there will be any problem there," replied Mrs Kampfell, with slight undertones of resentment creeping through.

"Very well," said N'ton. "Shall we go and speak to their father, then?"

Melenger trooped silently back with the others, Hayley chatting nineteen to the dozen with the envious brothers who weren't getting to make the trip. He didn't quite know what to make of it. No-one had asked him whether _he_ was willing to go. He guessed only the girls were usually a problem for the riders. No-one minded losing another spare male that they'd have to find a match for; everyone was a bit more concerned about the fate of a useful baby-producing machine.

He guessed he didn't mind that much, either. Being on a caravan was pretty boring. Having a dragon meant getting the best bits, the freedom to travel around, without all of the dull journey time.

And fighting Thread, a little voice in the back of his head reminded him, but he didn't want to think about that just yet.

Just because he liked to read about heroes didn't mean he wanted to become one.

\----

"I thought you said dragons were meant to have a great sense of timing," complained Melenger, as the long-anticipated humming rose throughout the Weyr. The boys were standing in line, trays at the ready, for their evening meal in the Dining Caverns, which smelled delicious.

"No, I said they had a great sense of _time_ ," replied Peter defensively. "Like, you can practically use some of them as a stopwatch. My aunt's Japeth..."

"Nobody cares about your stupid aunts and their stupid dragons," declared Melenger, pitching his tray back into the pile and sweeping out of the line with Peter and the others. "We all know you're going to waltz in there, claim your bronze, and live happily ever after, so you can just shut it, okay?"

Peter didn't even bother reminding him that actually he had already been left Standing twice. Or that several of his uncles were on green and blue, and this didn't make them any lesser in his eyes. He knew that Melenger was just hungry and frightened, like the rest of them. He didn't mean to be hurtful.

Chamez was hovering at the door of the candidate barracks trying to moderate the whole affair, but the desperate scrabble of several dozen boys attempting to find the robes they had buried, hidden, lost or possibly stolen from each other was never going to be a calm and orderly scene. Head down, Peter made his way determinedly through the scrum and snatched up his robe from where he had carefully wrapped it in other clothes and left it down the side of his trunk for easy access.

Melenger was not having any such luck. He tore frantically at the contents of his trunk, occasionally stopping to bitch at one of the other boys nearby who was getting in his space, but the robe was nowhere to be found. "Of course you can find yours, your mother probably packed your trunk and you haven't had a change of clothes out of it in three weeks!" he exclaimed angrily as he was hit in the face by the sleeve of someone who looked a bit too smug for his liking.

He had not had such a terrible time of his candidacy, but they did keep reminding him of the Oncoming Menace, even though it looked like they were going to have another five to ten years to talk incessantly about the Oncoming Menace once he'd done the whole standing in front of hunger-crazed dragonets thing. Melenger was not very keen on hearing about the Oncoming Menace, particularly not in the sense of Horrible Injuries You Might Acquire While Fighting It. It was all much cleaner in a spaceship; you got it right, or you were so much vapour.

Daydreams of space pilots and daring ship manoevers almost blinded Melenger to the gradual draining of other Candidates from the room. Only a couple of desperate specimins were left when Chamez produced the stack of spare robes he'd been carefully hiding and started to pass them out.

"I don't see why we have to wear these things anyway," Melenger complained as he struggled into his.

"It helps the medics see who is hurt," joked Chamez. That was not something Melenger wanted to hear right now, but he tried to hide his scowl from the nice attendant who had just saved his day. "Seriously, it's meant to help the hatchlings pick out people from the background. They might be less eager to stumble into something bright and reflective, was the thought, and dragon eyesight studies showed that they picked up white best. Not sure if it's working, but I guess it's tradition now."

"Uh-huh," replied Melenger, finally conquering the garment, to discover he was the last one in the room. "Gah," he exclaimed, and set off past Chamez at a sprint. The attendant smiled indulgently as he went past, and closed the door gently on the emptied room.

Out on the Sands, there was still little action but the humming. The initial jostling had settled down a bit, although the larger eggs were still attracting quite a contingent eyeing each other. There were maybe half a dozen girls, all clustered nervously around the smaller end of the clutch, with Hayley apparently giving the others something of a lecture. As Melenger headed over, with a slightly contemptuous glance at Peter and Boris over by the big, gleaming eggs - like a hatchling couldn't make its way right across the room if it had made up its mind - he began to make out what his step-sister was saying.

"And remember, they never quite know what's in these eggs - I mean, I've heard that the gold ones _tend_ to be noticably bigger, but all of the eggs are bigger than they've ever been, there's nothing _stopping_ one of those big bronze-looking shells over there..."

"Hey, sis," he called over to her.

"And here's big brother Melenger here to protect the ladies," she concluded. "Hey, melon-head, shouldn't you be over there with the manly and hetrosexual types?"

"If the stupid thing can't walk when it hatches, it can find someone else," he quipped. "What about you, missus any-of-those-might-be-a-queen? Don't fancy your chances at the Weyrwomanship?"

"Yeah, yeah," replied Hayley. "We all know they only picked you because they felt bad just taking a girl, and they knew your name already from whatever trouble you were causing outside the wagon. And you've got your robe on backwards."

Melengar spent several seconds checking his robe before realising that there wasn't in fact any way to put it on backwards, given that it was entirely symmetrical.

"Made you look, made you stare," Hayley mocked him.

Meanwhile Peter had started to do the traditional foot-to-foot hopping dance of someone who hadn't quite been prepared for how _warm_ the Hatching Sands were. He cursed his over-preparedness, looking over in envy at the latecomers like Melenger who had only just walked onto the Sands. There must be some sensible way to deal with this, he thought, some kind of insole, maybe. Perhaps he could settle down long enough to study the matter, once he had comprehensively failed to Impress. But the clutches kept getting larger and closer together, and it was years until he'd be too old to Stand.

He wasn't sure why he'd pushed his way over here with the other competitive types. Maybe it was just that he couldn't bear to be in an 'inferior' position to Boris, who despite occasionally showing signs of being a reasonable human being had mostly been comprehensively awful to anyone he thought he could get away with intimidating. Despite his father's assurances, Peter had found his mother to be rather distant and busy with her own life, which was fair enough but did mean he was quite on his own in the dog-eat-dog world that boys transplanted from their families inevitably created.

So he had to be seen asserting his dominence, even if really he had no particular opinions on the colour of his lifemate. If they existed at all. It wasn't as if humans got to choose these things anyway - as his father was always keen on telling him, when he introduced him to yet another random floozy he'd temporarily shacked up with, 'the dragon decides'.

And dragons must be pretty smart, because his father still wasn't a Weyrleader and not for a lack of trying.

His attention was drawn away from musing on his father's many and varied failings as a parent, a decent human being, and a person that Peter wanted to spend as much time around as his father appeared to be determined to give him, by the thunderous cracking sound accompanying the breaking of the first shell. He turned his attention back to the eggs and the dragonets that proceeded from them.

There followed a terrifying profusion of wings and claws and hides in all the colours of dragonkind, fluttering and stumbling from their confines into the crowding mass of eager and not-so-eager children. Peter was almost knocked down by a girl chasing a terrified-looking green hatchling at full tilt right through the middle of the shattered eggshells, and by the time he'd recovered from that, it looked like it was pretty much all over bar the feeding.

At the other end of the clutch, a rather undersized egg shuddered, shook, and finally violently tore itself apart in quite a spectacular shower of broken shell, and in the middle stood a tiny green hatchling looking _inordinately_ pleased with herself.

 _Look, there! Look at what I did!_ it seemed to be saying, thought Melenger. _Well? Aren't you impressed? Aren't you going to feed me?  
_  
Wait. That was a lot of extrapolation. _Um,_ attempted Melenger awkwardly. _Are you, uh, talking to me?_

 _Well, who else would I be talking to?_ asked the voice in his head. _There are all these white blobs, but only one M'leng. That's your name, right?_

 _Yeah,_ replied Melenger, taking a nervous step forwards, _but, uh, aren't you meant to tell me_ your _name?_

 _Oh,_ said the voice. _Sorry. I'm Sith. I figured you'd know._

 __"Come along, Sith, then," replied Melenger, speaking out loud now that he was more confident with the whole affair. "I can't tell what's you being hungry and what's me skipping dinner, but let's get you sorted out anyway."

 _You had lunch. And breakfast. I haven't eaten for_ weeks _. You can definitely spare me a bit of time before you go and stuff your face,_ Sith asserted.

Melenger laughed, a kind of crazy, slightly out of control laughter. He had a dragon! It was wonderful! He was going to die horribly in Threadfall! Wasn't life great?

 _I am very small,_ replied Sith doubtfully, _but I will become big and strong and then I will burn everything for you and it will be okay. Okay?_

 _Okay,_ conceded Melenger, although - despite the wonder - he couldn't quite feel the 'okay' in his heart. Especially as he could see that poor kid, Peter, who he'd been so horrible to, trailing off the Sands without a dragon.

Still, he was young yet, right? There would be other Hatchings.

**Author's Note:**

> With amazing last-minute beta-ing by the lovely Elfwreck from #yuletide!


End file.
